


"Please."

by Idlemind



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Mind Sex, POV Second Person, Present Tense, court mages, lots of invisible touching, no beta I'll die like an idiot, trying new things, young Tissaia and a special friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idlemind/pseuds/Idlemind
Summary: Young Tissaia is visiting the court of a foreign kingdom where a dear friend (with occasional benefits) serves at the court mage.
Kudos: 6





	"Please."

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my hand at a new writing style, and of course Tissaia became my muse!

The ghost sensation of her hand trailing down the line of your shoulder. Her lips brush against your cheekbone, then a tickle of breath against your ear. A soft chuckle echoing in your mind; notes you know by heart. Fingertips gliding up your side — your breath hitches, and you remember where you are.

You are at court, her court, in a kingdom who’s name has been long lost to the ravages of time. She stands across the ballroom, eyes burning with intent like greek fire. You take one delicious shuddering breath and turn away. Your king needs you to be present. To be his trusted mage. You focus on the conversation at hand, pushing your chaos out to sense for deception. They always think they can hide their intent from a sorceress — they are wrong.

You step away for a moment, and she is back. Her essence infecting every corner of your mind; like bitter herbs, like the sting of metal, like the breathless heat of a wildfire. One single knuckle traces your spine, then her hand tangles in your hair at the base of your neck, no more than a breeze. You feel a compulsion to turn your head, and a sharp guiding tug at your hair. She is still across the ballroom, standing by her king like a good mage. But her eyes are only for you.

You take a step forward, meeting her gaze. Then another. And another. Swirling, dancing, laughing courtiers fill the space between the two of you.

She takes one step forward. The ghost of her hand has never left your hair, and she tips your head back; baring your throat.

A pause, then hungry eyes and gasping lips trace the line of your jaw, down the column of your throat. Soft butterfly kisses and sharp bites, fingertips teasingly trace your collarbones.

You are gasping and breathless, surely someone will see, surely someone will hear! But the peacocks swirl past, self-absorbed as ever.

She releases your hair and you nearly whimper at the loss. You barely notice a tickle of sensation at your ankles, but you do notice as her hands slide higher, setting your skin aflame. They settle firmly at your waist, and gently, oh so gently, reel you forward. She guides you expertly through the flashing sea of dancing courtiers. An invisible partner leading you through the dance, always moving forward.

As you reach the other side she takes your hand. You feel a small, scarred, and _warm_ hand slip into your own. You still feel the ghost of her hands on your waist and the combined sensation is intoxicating. She is leading you out into the hall and _oh_ invisible lips are worshiping your neck again. She flashes a little smile over her shoulder. You thing that might be your new favorite smile.

The walk is short. The walk is an eternity. She is everywhere in your mind; lavender and mint, the delicious scrape of nails, the warmth of a summer’s day. You are in an alcove, nearly hidden by an ostentatious tapestry. And _oh_ those warm little hands are _really_ on you, brushing against the bodice of your dress. And before you know what you are doing your hands are threading through her unruly copper hair; greedily pulling her mouth to yours for a kiss. Soft lips, a gasp, and then your favorite kind of power struggle. All teeth and tongue, smiles and gasps. You part, and her eyes gleam with triumph. You feel threads of chaos dragging your hands away from that glorious mane until they are secured behind your back. An invisible hand tips your chin up, forcing you to maintain eye contact. You feel her hands slip away from your torso, not fair! She gives you a look you can barely interpret, but you _know_ what she wants because you are in every corner of her mind too.

 _“Tali, please.”_ You can taste the flood of triumph and arousal rushing through her mind, read it on her face. In an instant her hands and lips are all over you ghostly, _chaotic;_ warm, _real;_ overwhelming your senses. You are so lost in her mind, and she is so lost in your body; you don’t know who is who anymore. You are one person, one mind, driving towards the edge.

 _“Tiss, please.”_ And for her you leap, coming completely undone. Gasping, shaking; she is there, holding you. And suddenly, all you want to see is her trembling and coming for you. You feel the threads of chaos slip away from your wrists and you hold her, bringing your chaos to bear and overwhelming every nerve in her body.

 _“Let go, Tali.”_ And she does. You think this might be your new religion; her ecstasy burning like wildfire in your mind, her thoughts screaming only your name.

You are holding each other, foreheads pressed together, eyes wide open. Slowly, you sort out who is who and come back to yourselves. You giggle a little. You know what you look like because you saw yourself through her eyes; chignon mussed beyond repair, eyes wide, and two shades of lip paint smeared across your mouth. She grins at you and her hair has gone from wild to tangled, eyes now like banked coals instead of an inferno, and a matching mural smeared across her lips.

 _“Our kings will be missing us,”_ you say.

 _“Let them.”_ She says as she tries to tame your hair back into its originally severe style. She wipes the mess of lip paint off your face with her thumb, _“beautiful.”_

You decide the only thing that can disguise the fate of her hair is a braid, and you start a simple plait. You remember halfway through that you have a few spare hairpins an a bit of ribbon in your pocket, so her braided hair ends up coiled around her head like a crown. You press one single gentle kiss to her lips, and then wipe the messy lip paint from her face with your handkerchief. _“I think it's time for you to return to court.”_

She sighs regretfully, _“I suppose.”_ She takes your hand gently, _“Will you walk with me?”_

 _“You know we cannot do that.”_ You slip your hand from her grasp. _“What would the Brotherhood think?”_

She walks to the edge of the alcove, one hand on the tapestry ready to push it away. She turns around to look at you, smiling sadly. _“What_ would _the Brotherhood think?”_ And then she slips away from you, into the hall.

You watch her walk through a gap between the tapestry and the wall. _“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand…”_ you allow yourself ten minutes to tame your heart rate, control your breathing, and school your face into the picture of severity. You take a deep breath, and step bravely forward into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! that was uh.. certainly a thing.. that I wrote.... Anywho, I have been fixating on the words "please" and "everything" and what they might mean to Tissaia and Yennefer. This is supposed to be barely out of Aretuza bby Tiss who already doesn't like to say please, but with Tali (and Yennefer centuries later) it's ok. So uh, just trying to set some groundwork for that one scene!


End file.
